He Looks Like a Man
by WhitmanLover16
Summary: A poet riddled with an apocryphal crush, now reality. Walt Whitman falls head over heals in love with the 16th president of the U.S., Abraham Lincoln, while Lincoln himself feels a new, uncertain pull to the man with an unruly beard.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I wasn't sure what category to put this on, but this is historical fanfiction. While I am a history enthusiast, this may not follow history exactly as it happened, so don't hate me if it's not perfect! If there is something that's historically inaccurate, let me know so that I can change it/learn something new. Thanks!**

His long beard and scruffy hair were being particularly unhelpful that day, as Walt tried to tame his feature with a comb. His chest was tight, and he thought perhaps he could calm his nerves by grooming himself. He had been waiting for what felt like his entire life to get to this point, this day. Today was the day he was going to meet the great Abraham Lincoln.

There were no words to describe our great president in Walt Whitman's eyes other than spectacular. The was his tallest hats stood upon his head, his soft eyes always watching and understanding. There was nothing Mr. Lincoln couldn't do, whether it be freeing slaves in one wondrous speech and nearing the end of a war, or the ability to piece a once crumbling country back together. Mr. Lincoln was the one and only greatest president to have ever been honored the title. And Walt was granted the opportunity to meet him that day.

He made sure to wear his best, although he was aware that the President may only have a limited time slot allowed for him. It was a miracle they would be able to meet at all; Whitman was only a lowly poet and war veteran, a nobody in the wise eyes of Abraham Lincoln.

Walt looked at himself in the mirror another time, making sure he looked nice enough to grace the presence of the White House. His shirt was dark and brown, his Sunday best, and surely Lincoln's worst. His hair and beard were much like his suit pants. Passable, and there was nothing left to help his cause.

His horse, who he named Abraham after the President himself, seemed to sense Walt's anticipation and excitement for that day. He let Walt mount easily, although even if he didn't Walt wouldn't have noticed, he was too busy thinking about his coming encounter. He, Walt Whitman, was going to be able to meet the greatest, most beautiful man in history.

Abe placed his hat carefully on his head, making sure to cover his wispy strands of brown hair. He had to look his best that day, and a head full of graying, unruly hair was not the impression he wanted to make on his favorite poet.

"Abe? What are you doing?"

Abraham Lincoln's heart sank. Mary was always coming in and criticizing him. He hated her, but no respectable president was unmarried. It was simply unheard of. So Abe married this woman, and loved her as much as he could. But today he could think of nothing other than Mr. Whitman, acclaimed poet.

Abraham turned to his wife. "Oh, I'm just preparing for my meetings today. Nothing important, really." He lied, knowing his wife would be confused about him 'wasting his time' meeting with a poet while there was a country to run. But certain things were more important.

Mary nodded, sure in her husband's capabilities as a president (although his fashion sense was questionable), she loved everything about him. His tall, almost regal stature as he sat in his desk chair, contemplating whatever new problem the country seemed to have taken up. Thankfully they were almost done with this damn civil war. Perhaps when it ended Abe would be able to love her again, this time fully.

Abe cleared his throat. "Mary, I have to-"

"Right, sorry," She stepped out of the room quietly, wondering when he would ever look at her the way she needed him to.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I was surprised to find that somebody had actually read the random piece of nonsense I had written in high school and had promptly forgotten about. I was even more surprised when asked for a continuation. I didn't do any historical research on this, so if it's inaccurate, let me know and I'll learn something new. I have no idea how you found this, but user Uni Students, this is for you.**

The view of the White House was a magnificent one in the mornings. Watching the sun slant its rays over the curves and folds of the architecture, Walt felt his heartbeat slow from the pounding, pulsating rhythm to a slightly slower beat. The reality of completing an action that one has long anticipated is always much slower than in daydreams.

Open hours at the White House began at 10 am, but already there was a throng of civilians waiting for their chance to speak with the president. The line stretched out onto the lawn, each person dressed in the neatest outfit they could find, although for many of them, the war had taken a toll on their income, and the holes and wear shown despite their efforts to conceal them. Ahead of Walt was a man not much older than him, his leg bandaged and grimy. His face was dirty in the way that only a fellow of the war would notice- it was the type of dirty that remained even when washed for special occasions, when the bearer of the face would wipe the soot off with a rag and pronounce himself clean, unaware that beneath the thin layer of grime was a deep embedded type of dirt, one that stays and stays long past the battle. This is the type of face that will always be unclean. The sight of soldiers was too much like home, where each person holds testimony to the deep cruelties suffered by injured soldiers. In this way, the president was more of a hero to the people than to the country as a whole. To meet with each individual on complaints such as the one held by the wounded soldier ahead of Walt was a courageous one. One that relied on the prioritization of caring for individual suffering over the egotistical mark of only caring for the whole, to decide that each person matters more than the potential glory of presidency. _This_ was what Walt loved about the president. Here, in his home, the president's glory truly shone.

Walt knew there would be a long wait until it was his turn to meet with the president. So, notebook and pencil in hand, he stretched himself out on the lawn of the White House, scratching his words across the paper, trying to find the poem to describe his anticipation.

Abe watched as the people below him gathered at his door. His study with the second floor window gave him a good view of the souls he was going to attempt to rid of suffering with a few kind words and a nod of agreement. There was little he could do for the individual complaint, but, with a notebook in hand and a small tally count being marked for each day, Abe had discovered the greatest way to decide what policies and issues to take on. As much as Abe wanted to give each person full grant to their wishes, it would always be less so about the chord struck within Abe to help, and more so about the numbers, the budget allowance, and the mood of the damn Confederates that would allow him to allot time and money to the needy without taking from the war effort itself. Today, however, Abe looked down in search of one he knew was coming. How could he quiet the quickening of his heartbeat, the racing feeling in his chest? Glancing down at the passerby periodically would not calm him, and turning away and pretending to work out the upcoming budget and strategy wouldn't keep his palms from going sweaty. So what else could he do? Abe was a fool to try and crush his nerves. But what did he know about being a fool?

There. Abe looked down once more. There he was. Sitting below him on the grass, _writing._ Abe longed not only for the luxury afforded to the poet for the time allowed to write, but for the poet himself. Abe could not contain himself. Gesturing down below at the crowd, he muttered aloud, "the poet over there- look at him. _He_ looks like a man."


End file.
